Gathering
by HifaLootin
Summary: House and Wilson go grocery shopping. Chase comes to dinner. Post Hunting.


**a/n**: This was my first foray into House fanfiction, which I suppose I'm posting here for historic reasons...I still like certain parts of it, though my other stuff is probably better. This is the only full length fic I've written from House's POV so far, but it taught me that his voice is damn fun to write.

**Gathering**

If House could avoid it, he would never set foot in a grocery store. Inside, things were bright and garish, the lights too artificial, the help too eager—especially when they saw the cane. But he had to eat too after all, and now, so did Steve McQueen. So he went at night, after the soccer moms had cleared the aisles, and there were no shrieking children left to kick his shins or test his eardrums. He went at night, and he brought Wilson.

"What does Steve McQueen eat?" Wilson asked, pausing at the pet food aisle.

House made a face. "He's a rat." Then, thinking better of it added, "He'll have what we're having."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "And what are we having?"

"Don't ask me. You're the master chef tonight."

House hadn't gone light on the sarcasm, but he could tell that Wilson took it as a compliment anyway. Good for him. House reached into his pocket for a yo-yo, but upon finding nothing, had to settle for watching Wilson struggle to turn the cart around. Wilson's sleeves were bunched up around his elbows and from the tension in his arms, it was obvious that the task took more effort than it should have. Of course, he'd picked a cart with an especially bum wheel. Leave it to Wilson.

"Eggplant?" Wilson asked, almost catching House off guard.

"What? Ew. No."

Wilson laughs. "Eggplant _parmesan_. Come on, I bet you'll like it."

"This is supposed to be consolation dinner," House reminded, "I'm blue already. You shouldn't be making me eat eggplant."

It wasn't a look that anyone else would have recognized, but House swore he saw an expression of _oh-come-on_ cross Wilson's face.

"House, this isn't a consolation dinner. This is you calling me and demanding I come keep you company because you read Stacy's private files, and now she wants nothing to do with you, and you're lonely, which is nothing new," Wilson paused and House crossed his fingers against another half-ass psychoanalysis from his friend. "She has every right to be pissed at you. I'd be pissed at you. This isn't a cheer-up-your-friend-who-just-got-dumped night. This isn't a pity party."

"Well, darn. Guess I'll just have to return that gallon of ice cream and all those chick flicks. And you won't get to see my cute new pajamas." House snagged a bag of Lays off a nearby shelf and opened it with his teeth.

"Somehow I think I'll live. And...you're eating those here?"

House dipped his hand into the bag. "Didn't you know? If you finish them in the store, you don't have to pay for them."

"You're incorrigible."

"I'm entitled."

Wilson smirked. "This doesn't mean I'm taking your side, you know. What you did was wrong."

"Oh get off your moral high horse," House said through a mouthful of chips. "If I had a dollar for every time you, say, couldn't keep your dick in your pants...well, I'd be paying for the groceries instead of you. I read a file; I didn't sleep with her sister."

Wilson eyed him very levelly, and House felt almost proud that his friend hadn't backed down. To save the moment, House nodded towards the butcher counter.

"Steak," he said. Keeping his eyes trained on House, Wilson nodded carefully.

"Steak. And potatoes."

House clutched his breast in mock ecstasy. "Jimmy! I've always known you were a man after my own heart."

Wilson was in the kitchen and House was on the couch, passing a rubber ball from hand to hand as he watched Steve McQueen drink noisily from his water bottle.

"Something smells terrible," he called, when he tired of the rat's plight. Wilson appeared in the doorway, hands on hips. If House squinted, he could—to his delight—mentally paste a stupid apron (kiss the cook?) over Wilson's wrinkled shirt.

"Something smells wonderful," Wilson corrected, "And it's the potatoes. They're done."

House opened his mouth like an overgrown baby bird.

"They're in the kitchen if you want to try them," Wilson offered.

House turned his head to look sadly at his bad leg, which was propped up on the coffee table.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Wilson muttered, but he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a wooden spoon, which he thrust towards House's face. "Here."

As smoothly as he could, House took the potato in his mouth and chewed.

"Thas' gud," he said around the spud, which tasted faintly of rosemary. Wilson rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, but looked triumphant nonetheless.

"There's a lot of it too. You'll be eating leftovers for a week."

House smiled like a Cheshire Cat. "I know."

The doorbell buzzed. Wilson jumped.

"Did I forget to tell you?" House asked, covering his mouth with his fingers. He hoped he looked like he was at least _shooting_ for innocent. "I called a friend. Oh, don't look so incredulous."

Wilson looked incredulous.

"Is this a practical joke?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. House ignored the question.

"Aren't you going to answer the door?" Then added, before Wilson could protest: "My leg hurts."

Wilson answered the door to find House's intensivist, a certain Dr. Robert Chase, scrubbing his shoes against the beaten doormat.

"Dr. Wilson," Chase nodded.

House could tell that Wilson was immediately suspicious by the way he paused before saying, "Come in."

"Where's Foreman?" Chase asked as he shucked off his jacket and draped it over a chair.

"Couldn't make it," House said, "He has a 'date.'" His fingers added the meaningless air quotes, but neither Chase nor Wilson seemed interested in asking.

"So...it's just us then?" Chase asked.

"Don't worry," House quipped, "We won't make you feel like a third wheel."

Wilson looked sympathetic as he turned to Chase. "What did he say to make you come over here on a Friday?" Chase shrugged.

"Got nothing else going on."

"I just invited him over for a night with the guys," House said, "Didn't even have to twist his arm. Don't you know Chase can't ever say 'no'? Just ask Cameron."

Chase flushed at that, but refused to take the bait. As he haltingly excused himself to grab a beer, House mused to himself that hunting season must be over.

Wilson's hand shot out and gripped his shoulder. "I knew something was up when you said you invited a 'friend,'" the oncologist hissed, "I'll be watching you. Seriously."

House chuckled. "Oh, you," he chimed, surprising Wilson with an awkward pat to the hip. Wilson raised his eyebrows and stepped back a few paces towards the kitchen.

"I'll be in here now," he said.

House laughed again and opened his palm, tossing Wilson's cell in the air and catching it triumphantly.

- - -

One and a half beers later Chase was starting to loosen up, nesting comfortably against the sofa, tie abandoned and a foot propped languidly by his empty plate. He chuckled and brought a hand behind his head as Wilson launched into an animated description of an encounter at the clinic. Wilson, House noted, looked particularly pleased with himself—perhaps finding a newfound appreciation of Chase, who had inhaled his cooking with more enthusiasm than House, and House was hungry. Good for him, thought House, that kid was too skinny anyway. House tried to imagine what Chase did eat, what his refrigerator at home might look like. Foreign beer and jars of Vegemite?

"Can we turn on the tube?" Chase asked. "To catch the news."

Wilson reached for the remote, but House snatched it away from his hands. He met Wilson's surprise with, "What? Did you actually think I was going to let you bore us to death with the local news?"

Wilson pressed his lips together. "But he—"

"Doesn't actually want to watch it either. He's just trying to seem smarter than he actually is."

"Right here if you need me," Chase said, raising a hand in the air.

House waved the remote. "Now if you want to watch something with merit..."

"Like the OC?" Chase was very tongue-in-cheek right there, and House was thoroughly tempted to grab his cane and give his houseguest a good whack. Instead, he pulled a face.

"How did you know I watched the OC?" House let his jaw drop as he turned to Wilson. "Someone has a big mouth!"

"I never knew that information was classified," Wilson said.

"Oh, that reminds me," Chase said, "I meant to tell you that Kalvin's father is not pressing charges after all."

House feigned ignorance. "Who?"

"The man you assaulted. Remember?"

"How'd you swing that?"

Chase peeled at the label on his bottle. "I talked to the son. He say's Dad's just glad they're both alive."

"But however did you convince him?"

Chase rolled his eyes, but denied House the pleasure of a response.

Wilson had now just finished his last bite of steak, and was reaching over to stack the plates. "Do you want any more, Chase?" he asked.

"M'fine, thanks." Chase crossed his ankles and brought a hand up to tug at his collar.

Watching Chase pop the top buttons on his shirt, House found himself struck with a sudden strong memory of wine and the back of a limousine and his own shirt being unbuttoned and pulled from his shoulders. Stacy had been tipsy and her hands were strangely desperate as she tugged and grabbed, ran fingernails down his chest and neck. The car turned a corner and she was on top of him, kissing his neck, and he had thought, _this is the real thing, I'm in love with this woman_ as the wine bottle rolled under the seat.

Chase must have noticed him staring, because he rolled his head and shot House one of those puzzled looks usually reserved for work.

"Something wrong?"

"Just wondering why a good looking guy like you can't get a date on a Friday night," House said. Chase was too comfortable now, which left him open to general jabs.

Chase didn't seem sure whether to smile or scoff, but he dropped his eyes and looked away. House, delighted to have caught him off guard, turned to Wilson next. "Dr. Chase is a good looking guy, right, Wilson?"

"Uh, well, I suppose."

"Oh c'mon, Jimmy!" House said. "You can do better than that."

Chase laughed. "Really, he doesn't have to."

"It's all right," Wilson conceded, holding up his hands. "I can admit that Dr. Chase is an attractive man."

Chase laughed again, but ducked his chin. House had noticed he was blushing, but it took Wilson longer to realize he'd embarrassed the younger doctor. Wilson coughed and fumbled for the dishes.

"Right, well I'll take care of these before things get really gay in here."

"Oh let me," House sighed, springing up on his good leg. Chase and Wilson exchanged glances. "You two can chat about hair or something until I come back. Wilson, you should really find out what shampoo he uses, because his hair is superb!"

- - -

House tossed the dishes in the sink with a clatter. Even washing dishes made him think of Stacy now, and how close he had been—she'd been happy, standing at the sink with him, elbow deep in dishwater. And how close they had been, when she was laughing and their arms were touching and he could smell her vaguely floral shampoo that she was still using after all those years, even over the sour smell of the dish soap. House rubbed a hand down his face and reached for the faucet, letting the stream of hot water splatter against the dishes and drown the memory. His fingers dug into his pocket to find Wilson's cell and a near-empty bottle of vicodin.

Gazing at the steam rising from the sink, he gulped the pills dryly, and made the call.

When House came back, drink in hand, he found that Wilson had turned the TV on afterall and Chase was sucking on yet another beer. An action movie buzzed low on the screen and House plopped down heavily beside his subordinate, who barely noticed.

"Don't hit that bottle too hard," House warned, "You don't want to end up like mummy."

"I'm fine."

House threw back a mouthful of the scotch he'd poured in the kitchen, perhaps to hide his delight at Chase's reaction. Misery loves company and all that.

"Look like you won't be driving home," House added.

Chase was resting the lip of the bottle against his mouth. "Took a cab."

"Me, however, you are stuck with for the night," said Wilson, thrusting his beer towards House in salute—like it was his job to lighten the mood. "Julie won't appreciate me stumbling in at this hour. Better save that fight for the morning. Cheers."

"Cheers," called Chase, and even House lifted his tumbler for the toast.

"What are you watching anyway?"

Wilson shrugged and tilted his head at the screen in a way reminiscent of Steve McQueen, whom House had temporarily forgotten about. Steve was probably sleeping, but House tapped a socked foot against his cage just to check. Nope, nothing. House watched the tiny curve of his back swell and fall with shallow mousy breaths.

"Why_ do_ you have a rat?" Chase asked.

"Well—" Even though House wasn't about to tell Chase the truth, his mind which always worked on overdrive (that was usually a good thing) had the time to remind him

_you were trying to impress Stacy, you were trying to be tough, you were trying to clever, she said she he was okay for a rat and she meant you were okay for a rat, and lying on your stomach in the attic with her was enough to make you happier than you'd been in weeks._

House grinned sourly. "Well, he's pretty clean for a rodent, and he's smart, and he doesn't make a lot of noise—so I guess you could say he's a better roommate than most."

Chase raised his eyebrows.

"He doesn't want to talk about the rat," Wilson cut in, "It reminds him of just how badly he screwed up with Stacy."

Turning almost violently to his colleague, House snapped, "Well, how's your love life, Jimmy? Can't be good if you're hiding here from the missus.""

There was a brief moment of surprise on Wilson's face, but he shook his head and dove back into the bottle.

"You, Chase?" House ventured, eyes wide with sudden fervor. From the way Chase was looking at him, House realized he probably looked a little crazy, but he couldn't help it now. He'd shut Wilson down, and he'd take Chase down too if it meant saving face.

"That's none of your business."

"Isn't it though, when you're getting involved with another one of my doctors?" House demanded.

"I am not having this conversation with you," Chase said as he slammed his bottle down on the coffee table.

"Or was it a one time thing? Cameron only interested in you when she's high?"

Chase sprang to his feet. "I'm leaving."

Before he could take one step further, House swung his cane out to block the way to the door, a crack rang out, and immediately Chase was bent over clutching his shin.

Wilson jumped up too, as if to intervene.

"Go to hell!" Chase cried.

"You can't leave yet," House said evenly, "You haven't seen the special surprise."

A tear slipped down Chase's cheek, which he quickly chased away with the hand that wasn't clutching his leg. "That hurt, you bastard."

"I thought you were into that."

"House..." Wilson warned, but House was not prepared to relent.

Then, as if on cue, the doorbell sounded again.

"I'll get it," House said, opting to leap one-legged towards the door in the interest of time. He could feel the stares behind him—Chase, angry, indignant; Wilson, confused, indignant. Not a moment too soon, he thought, as he seized the doorknob.

Cameron stood behind the door—Dr. Allison Cameron, though she no longer looked the part in wrinkled trousers and a ratty sweater that hung past her thighs. Her hair was oily, pulled back from her face and she was wearing no makeup. Whatever she'd been doing on a Friday night, House mused, couldn't have been much better than this.

"Are you okay?" she asked. The concern in her eyes was genuine, which killed him.

"I'm dandy." House feigned innocence. "What would make you think otherwise? Come to think of it—" he held a finger to his lips as he turned to look back and Wilson and Chase, who were frozen with surprise, "What are you doing here?"

Cameron reached for her hip. "I got a page from Dr. Wilson, I...I couldn't get through, but it said he was here and I thought there was some kind of emergency."

"I didn't page you," Wilson said, mere second before the realization dawned. "House!"

House fished the cell phone from his pocket. "I borrowed it," he proclaimed. He tossed it to Wilson, but the other doctor made no move to catch the thing and it clattered to the floor forgotten. Wilson was pissed. Chase was probably appalled. Cameron was confused...

So House would be defensive.

"What? I thought we needed a girl."

"So everyone's...okay?" Cameron asked lamely. "And I came here for nothing?" House noted that she had been making a conscious effort not to look at a certain colleague. He'd help.

"Well, since you're here, it looks like Chase could use some mouth to mouth."

By the way Cameron's eyes changed, House knew he was in trouble. By the way she shoved the door aside and invited herself into his living room, House knew he was really in trouble—and oh, was he grateful.

"I always knew you were a jerk." Cameron's voice swelled with every word. "I just don't think I realized how cruel you can be. You wanna laugh at me?"

"Cameron—" Chase ventured, but she cut him off.

"I'm exhausted and I might have HIV—because of your patient, at that!" she cried, never taking her eyes off House. "It's my job, and I'm not blaming you but...do you expect me to laugh? I didn't expect any sympathy, not from you, but a little break from these stupid games—"

"_Cameron_." This time it was Wilson, which caught her off guard, and gave House a window.

"I wasn't laughing at you," he said, "Not about the HIV."

"Just about Chase then?" she snapped, "Great then, okay."

"Did you even think," House asked carefully, "that I might have invited you here to hash it out with him before Monday? Maybe I don't want two of my diagnosticians all awkward and distracted over a tryst when there are patients' lives on the line."

"Oh, sure that's it." Cameron was looking skyward, eyes shiny like she could start crying at any moment. "And you didn't invite me. You tricked me."

"And would you be here if I hadn't?"

She wavered a little, that much was obvious. House licked his lips and glanced from Cameron to Chase, who was standing with arms crossed against his chest. House wondered, for once, what to say next, but it wasn't his call.

"I don't want things to change between us," Cameron said, over his head, making eye contact with Chase for the first time that evening.

Chase shrugged. "Me neither."

"So convincing!" House trilled, "One more time with feeling!"

He felt Wilson's hand clap against his shoulder.

"What do you say," Wilson asked, twirling his beer bottle in his free hand, "to sitting down for a drink? Something a little stronger?"

"God, I'm game," Cameron muttered, sinking down to the couch with her face hidden behind loose hair and fingers.

"Whatever takes advantage of his hospitality," Chase agreed. He joined her after only a brief hesitation.

There was a moment there, when House's mind strayed to a time of sitting awkwardly on the couch with Stacy in much the same way. Could Chase and Cameron...no. Even then it was obvious they would save themselves the heartache of incompatibility. Perhaps they were smarter that way.

"House?" Wilson prompted.

"There's a bottle of Jack in the kitchen. But I was saving that for a special occasion!"

He was rewarded with a look, as Wilson turned on his heels to fetch the entertainment.

"What are you watching?" Cameron asked, squinting at the TV as a man began shooting up a public bathroom and a urinal exploded. House decided to follow Wilson.

Wilson was grabbing kitschy souvenir shot glasses from the cupboard, and House reached out wordlessly to offer a hand.

"I can't believe I'm getting your medical team drunk." Wilson sighed. "But I'm thinking it beats whatever you had planned."

"What makes you think I had anything planned?"

"Oh please. You'd have tortured them until at least one was crying."

House pretended to be thoughtful. "Twenty bucks says Chase goes first."

"It's all a game for you, isn't it?"

"Oh, you know I don't mean it. They've got to have this confrontation sooner or later—it doesn't matter that it's happening because of me."

"No," Wilson said, the bluntness of the word striking House like a blow to the head. "You love it. You love anyone's pain that's not your own, and that's why you'll always be miserable.

And like that, House's throat felt impossibly dry. "You're right," he rasped.

"And that's why Stacy can't love you."

As Wilson turned to leave, House lurched out and caught his arm in a crushing grip, almost upsetting the shot glasses balanced in Wilson's hand.

It was then House realized that the man who washed dishes with Stacy and trapped rats in her attic was not the same man who she had kissed in the back of a limousine or sat so timidly beside after their first consummation. So in part, Wilson was right. And it wasn't going to happen. With Stacy. But damn, if that would keep him from trying...he dug his fingers deeper into Wilson's arm.

"Then it's a good thing I have you," he hissed to against his friend's—his only friend's—ear. "Because you love that I'm miserable."

Wilson jerked away, laughing bitterly.

"Well come on then, my beloved jackass," he said. "Let's join the party."

_fin_

**a/n**: I've been told this feels unfinished, which I can't say I disagree with. There is, however, a sequel which is a hell of a lot better called _Portions for Foxes_. Unfortunately I haven't posted it here yet due to formating issues, but if you're interested, you can find it at my livejournal (there's a link in my profile).

If anyone has some constructive criticism on this one, I'd love to hear it!


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